david gillette our span of three … it’s still warm as breath out here on the edge of the desert, where the sun dropped and Mother said I shouldn’t be because of the Mexicans, but to hell with her because it’s not only desert now, it’s an air base and flyers, gasoline, oil, and viscous clouds of diesel exhaust. It’s the might of the U.S. government with runways stretching for miles in every direction, their green generators, trucks and hangers hulking behind that long steel fence, coyotes running and calling to each other across the arroyos that cut down from the hills. Mexico is farther beyond, forgotten and old tonight. The propellers and engines roar around us like a den of animals chained in the dark. A few of the planes escape with a screech over our heads as we shoot across the end of the runways. Their red lights riding at wingtips and atop the tails, the white light leading
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